Letters
by Sophlock
Summary: John writes some letters to Sherlock after Reichenbach, but they never get sent, they just end up in the bin. The detective finds them and writes some replies that also never get sent. Johnlock. Post Reichenbach feels. Rated T for language. Let me know what you think and I might carry on!
1. Chapter 1

**Soooo here's come feels. John's letter is first, then Sherlock's reply. **

**John's letters written by NirvanaK (Check her out maybe, fics coming from her soon) Sherlock'a letters written by me. **

**Warnings/Triggers- Feels. A lot of them. Strong language. **

**Disclaimer-**

**We only own the letters, we owe the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle the characters and the BBC for choosing such amazing actors that gave us such inspiration. **

**Anyway, away we go with the feels...**

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There was a reason I couldn't tell the therapist what I wanted to say to you, it was too personal for a start and, yes I know it's illogical, but it didn't feel right to tell her before I told you. Because, God damn it, Sherlock, you don't ever listen to me, do you? Not even when you're about to jump off a fucking building, you selfish bastard.

God, I miss you Sherlock. So fucking much.

I can't even walk past St. Bart's anymore. Don't really leave the flat anymore either, too many pitying stares from people I don't bloody well know. Too many memories as well, Sherlock.

They wanted me to move in with my sister, worried I'd do something 'drastic'. I don't want to leave, not yet, Sherlock, because I'm still waiting for my bloody miracle. Oh, God, what do you care about this inane babble anyway? You always preferred short and sweet and look at me, here, writing on and on about shit you don't care about because it hurts me so fucking much to actually talk about the 'important' stuff, as my therapist would so simply put it, but she doesn't understand, Sherlock, everything about you is important to me, even if you are dead you're still the most important person… thing…. I don't fucking know, you're what's most important to me, all the time, and fuck I'm sounding like a bloody sixteen year old lovesick girl, and all I can hear in my head right now is you with your bloody 'Sentiment, John', well screw you, Sherlock, screw you. You've left me alone, I'm alone again Sherlock. Just a crazy ex-solider with dead a best friend and a drunkard for a sister.

I'm alone and I'm having nightmares again. Not about the war this time, no, God no, these are infinitely worse. They're about you, lifeless, cold, and bloody. Dead. And it hurts, Sherlock, 'cause I fucking love you and it fucking hurts that I'm still so fucking in love with and you'll never know. You selfish, selfish bastard.

JW.

John glared at the letter in his hand. As if he'd just written that to his dead best friend. He screwed it up angrily and threw it in the waste bin beside the desk. He looked around the empty flat and sighed, "I miss you."

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Dear John,

I found your letter, crumpled up in the bins. I thought that I owed you a reply. Because I do, I do John.

There was a reason I couldn't tell you I had to go. You had to believe I was gone. Or you'd be gone instead, and I can't live with that.

I'm going to use those things I hate in this letter- feelings and emotions. I don't need them, they don't aid me or my hard drive. But when I met you, I couldn't do it anymore, I couldn't divorce myself from them and stay detached. This is what you do to me John. You change me, and no one else can do that. You made me feel, you made me cry, you made me scared and you made me feel guilty.

You told me that you love me. I'm not exactly sure what love feels like. But if it means when you want to protect someone, and care for them, and hold them, and kiss them better, and stop them from hurting, and grow old with them- then I love you. I love you Doctor John Hamish Watson. With all my heart I now know I have.

I'm going to give you your miracle John. I promise you. One day soon I will walk in the door. I might look beaten, or bruised, or broken. But I'll be back. With you, the way it's meant to be. And I'll compose music at 3am, and you'll shout at me. And you'll drink tea all the time, and I'll call you an idiot. The way I want it.

You think I don't care about that stuff... Well I won't lie to you, I didn't. I didn't until I met you. When you flipped my world upside down and made me question everything about myself. I don't even know how to act around you, and it scares me John, it scares me that I don't know myself, because that's the only thing I've truly known since I was a child.

I miss you too John. I miss your smell. And your touch. The way you look at me when I deduce. The way you lick your bottom lip without knowing. I miss it all. And I want to come back so badly. I really do. And soon, I will.

I don't want you to have nightmares. They make you weaker John, and I need you to stay strong for me. I need to come back and find that I haven't broken you too much. Because I couldn't live with myself if I'd done that to you, because you're my John. My only friend. My blogger. My doctor. And maybe even one day, my lover.

Stay strong John. For us both. Please, I'm begging you here, and I've said it before, I don't beg.

SH

Sherlock put his pen down on the desk in the empty library. He knew he couldn't send this letter. He sighed as he carefully took it and folded it neatly, tucking into his coat pocket.

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Thanks for reading! Tell me what you think in a review and I might continue this!


	2. Chapter 2

**Soooo here's some feels. John's letter is first, then Sherlock's reply. **

**John's letters written by NirvanaK (Check her out maybe, fics coming from her soon) Sherlock's letters written by me. **

**Review answers:**

**Thanks for the 3 lovely reviews :)**

**Kiluca1228: Thank you! Hope you like these two **

**MentalCapricorn: We did make more, enjoy your feels...?**

**JustFemke: Sorry for giving you more feels... Please don't hate us... **

**Warnings/Triggers- Feels. A lot of them. Strong language. **

**Disclaimer-**

**We only own the letters, we owe the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle the characters and the BBC for choosing such amazing actors that gave us such inspiration. **

**Anyway, away we go with the feels...**

* * *

_John sat down at the desk again and picked up his Bic Biro. He didn't like using Sherlock's fancy, inky pens, they were too posh for him. He took a deep breath and began writing another letter to his best friend, the one that has left him._

Sherlock,

I don't know why I'm writing one of these again, I guess it's... Therapeutic, in a sense. Funny that. I've not been to the therapist since you... Well, I guess maybe the silly woman was right about something, Sherlock, writing out my feelings is helping, just it's... More private than the blog. God I've not uploaded anything on there since you... Well since St. Barts. Nothing happens to me anymore Sherlock, I have nothing to write about even if I _did_ want to write. Which I don't. Not without you, it's not the same. God I just want you back.

I mean even if I did write, nobody would want to read it, what do I have to tell them? 'Oh, I threw up what I ate again these last two days, so I've decided just to give up on breakfast' I'm sure that _everybody_ wants to hear that.

You were the only thing that made my life with living, Sherlock, and I fucking hate myself for only realising it after it was too late. Always too late. I can't save you now. Can't tell you that you have so much to live for. Why didn't you just tell me it was getting that bad?! I. Don't. Understand. Sherlock. Surely you could've just... Told me... I could've helped you. That's what best friends are for. I failed at that too I guess.

Sometimes I forget you're not here anymore, I think that I'll just walk into the apartment carrying too many shopping bags and you'll be sat there in your pyjamas and dressing gown, shouting at the TV, shouting at the DNA test "It's only 99.7% accurate! I'm still right! That's not the father, LOOK AT HIS TURN UPS!" And I'll roll my eyes at you and huff and you won't even notice as I struggle to put the shopping away, dropping the eggs or, even worse, the milk as I open the fridge to find yet another body part in there. Couldn't you just once, for my sanity, please just clear up?... But... That's never going to happen again. I'll open the door and Mrs Hudson will come out to help me up the stairs even with her dodgy hip, and she'll sit me down and make me some tea while she puts the food away, enough for three still, and even though she'll try to fill the silence with her chatter and gossip about the gay couple in the apartment next door, the silence will still be the only thing I hear, the emptiness that even when you were in your 'mind palace' your thoughts were practically filling the whole room, screaming. Screaming. SCREAMING. Was never here before. It deafens me. Suffocating me. I can't breathe. A nightmare I can't wake up from. What do I do Sherlock? Just please tell me what to do!

JW

_Again, the army doctor put his pen down. He wiped away the tears that had stupidly come back again, how could he even cry anymore?! Surely it wasn't humanly possible..._

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_Sherlock breathed deeply as he read the second scrunched letter, a tactic he used to try and control his stupid feelings and emotions. It didn't work as he felt a salty tear land on his lip, he roughly wiped it away and grabbed a sheet of paper from the library desk. It was closing now so he couldn't stay, he went out into the night again and decided to write leaning against Molly's back garden wall, she wouldn't mind..._

John

You wrote another letter. And you threw it away again... I bet you feel like that letter don't you? You feel like I had you on a spur of the moment, to keep myself feeling 'normal', and then like I threw you away when I didn't want you anymore, ripped and discarded. Well I didn't mean for that to happen John, I didn't, it makes me sick to imagine myself acting like that with you. I hope you don't think like that, I hope that somewhere, deep down in that lovely, kind and caring heart of yours, you know that I had a reason.

You're sick because of me. Sick. I made you sick. That makes me feel sick too John. I don't want to think about you being like that... You need to eat John, please don't give up on breakfast, it's important. And I know that sounds hypocritical coming from me, but you need it, my soldier can't stay strong for me without breakfast.

I want to be back with you so much too. I want you to walk in, like you said, with too many shopping bags and you'll struggle with the door. But it'll be different, I'll jump up to help you, brush my hand against yours when I take a bag or two, give you a kiss and say it's ok if you drop the eggs. I want that John. I want it to be that way, not like this, this is horrible.

I couldn't tell you John, you couldn't have helped me... I promise you that you didn't fail as a best friend. You never failed. You were the best man I ever knew, well, know. Please don't think you failed me John, because you didn't, ever.

I saw you today. Again. At my grave. You left me a sheet of my favourite piece of violin music that I used to play. You'd laminated it for me so it didn't get soggy if it rained and signed it at the bottom with 'Love John x' That's the first piece of music I'm going to play you when I come back, so you know I was watching cry as you put it there. I watched you because I wanted to make sure those kids weren't there anymore, you know the one's that laughed at you because you were crying?

The Metro published an article about me today, I read it actually, I hope you didn't. They interviewed Lestrade in it, he said "I have come to accept that the man we knew as Sherlock Holmes, is dead. He's gone no matter whether he was a liar, or a fake or... anything." He's stopped believing in me John, I hope you don't stop believing. Please don't. I'm begging you again.

John I need to tell you that Molly helped me fake my death. You're going to find out when I come back, please don't be angry at her for not telling you anything. She only did what I told her to, because I told her it would be better for you in the long term, she believed me, but now she tells me how she watches you suffer when she sees you, how she feels guilty for not saying anything. I made her promise to wait John, because I'm coming back soon, I promise.

I can't tell you what to do John, I can't contact you until I come back, but I hope you know what is the right thing to do, which is to move on from me, be happy. And then, when I come back, we can be happy together.

SH

_Again, the detective sighed as he couldn't send the reply. Just another letter to add to his pocket._

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**Thanks for reading! Review and make us happy? :D**


	3. Chapter 3

**I apologise for the lateness of this, blame Holly ;D **

**Soooo here's some feels. John's letter is first, then Sherlock's reply.**

**John's letters written by NirvanaK (Check her out maybe, fics coming from her soon) Sherlock's letters written by me.**

**Review answers:**

**Thank you so much for the reviews! They are lovely and give us inspiration to write :) **

**Warnings/Triggers- Feels. A lot of them. Strong language.**

**Disclaimer-**

**We only own the letters, we owe the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle the characters and the BBC for choosing such amazing actors that gave us such inspiration.**

**Anyway, away we go with the feels...**

* * *

_John closed the door as she left and sighed as he faced another lonely night in the flat. He decided to write, he hadn't written in a while. He sat at the table and frowned as he took a piece of paper and began to write. _

Sherlock,

I'm sorry I've not written in a while, I've been busy. That was ambiguous, sorry, I know you like it short and sweet. I... I've met someone. She works in paediatrics, I met her my first day back at St. Barts. I thought I could handle it. I couldn't.

She found me fucking sobbing in the supply room, I bet I looked fucking pathetic; crying, practically slobbering, over someone who's been dead for a year and half. Everything I saw reminded me off you, in some way or another. It's stupid really, there were parts of that hospital that you wouldn't even touch with a ten foot pole and yet, _somehow_, I still managed to see you everywhere. I had a panic attack. Actually, multiple. I couldn't breathe, I felt like clawing at my own chest. I felt trapped and suffocated, the weight of death pushing down on my heart. Death surrounded me; young, old, fit, fat. They were all dying. Your death. It stained the whole building, lingered in the air, clogging up every. Single. Room. Like a volcanic ash cloud; dense. Clogging up my lungs like cement. I couldn't cope. I don't know what I was thinking, really, that maybe a year and a half was enough time to have healed, even the tiniest bit? I thought I was getting better. I was lying to myself. Masking. Bottling. Magma waiting to erupt. And it did.

And that's how I met Mary. I can practically see you rolling your eyes at my dramatics. But, fuck you, it's not like you can speak.

We've only been out a few times but I see her every day because I've relocated to the paediatrics department. It's easier to handle and you hated kids so it's pretty safe in the panic attack department. She's amazing, Sherlock, really. She's so smart and witty, maybe not like you but she's definitely not an idiot, like me. She understands as well, Sherlock. She knows everything. Except these letters, I didn't want to seem _that_ mental. I told her when she found my pathetic little self snivelling in the supply room. I didn't even question why, I could trust her. Like I trusted you. I never questioned you either, not really.

I'm not saying she's you, no one could ever replace you. Ever. But... She's different from the others, she laughs at all the stupid stories I tell her about you, of your lack of social skills and your blunt genius. She's different. I don't know where this is going, but... It's nice to not feel the deep sadness that has rooted itself within me. I actually feel normal when I'm with her.

I still love you. Always will but I gave up on my silly fantasy, my 'miracle', a while go. I'm not five, anymore, time to give up on impossible fantasy. You're dead. You're not coming back. I have to move on.

JW

_Oh good god John seriously? Mary will think you're _insane_ if she finds this! He screwed up the letter and put it in the bin outside, she had no chance of finding it out there. _

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_Sherlock had been checking for a letter for a while, when another one appeared, crumpled in the bin, he took it eagerly before remembering what it was. He read it and had no idea how to feel. Why did his body need these 'feelings' anyway? They only got hurt and confused... He settled down to write a reply anyway, his favourite inky pen drying under the moonlight as he wrote in the park. _

John,

Well I guess I did want you to move on. Of course you'd do it eventually... Well now you're doing it, you're moving on from me.

She sounds lovely. She sounds like everything you deserve in life, someone you can trust, cherish and love openly. Someone that won't leave you behind or play violin at 3am. I want you to be happy John, I want you to live your life. And if it means I can't come back and kiss you and never let go, then so be it. I never expected you to wait so long for me, I don't deserve that. I'm glad she makes you feel normal and you can talk to her. You could never do that with me, could you? I'm sorry for that.

You went back to Barts and cried over me in a supply cupboard. That makes me feel so... Empty. I hate thinking about you crying. If I could I would come back to you, take your hand, walk you home, sit on the sofa with you, drink tea with you, chat with you. All the things I didn't do properly before because I'm an idiot.

_You're_ not an idiot John. I know I said you were, but you're not. No where near it. You're amazing, the only man that fascinates me, the only man I can turn to for advice, the only man I trust with my heart. Because I realise now that I have one of those, I realised when I worked out just how much I love you John.

You still love me? Well you don't need to, you have Mary now. I love you, but that's different, I have no one. It's not as if I could ever get anyone anyway, you were the only one that put up with my stupid habits, my 'lack of social skills' and my 'blunt genius'...

You gave up on your miracle? You don't believe in me anymore... The one thing I was hoping you could cling on to... Well I guess I couldn't expect you to live on that for years. I wanted to come back, I really did, I was about to recently, and then more of Moriarty's men appeared. D'you know how close I was to the door actually? While you were out shopping the other day I had my hand on the door handle, I was about to come back to you. Then Mycroft called. And I had to go again. And now I have fractured bones. And cuts. And bruises. And a bullet hole in my shoulder. Like yours actually, it's quite a coincidence.

You know when we watched the man blow up on the minefield at Baskerville? And how I looked at you horrified but you were emotionless? I was confused then but now I realise it's because you've seen that happen before, seen people die, seen friends die, you've taught yourself to stay strong, well at least in public anyway. Well I have that now, I've sent people to death John, sent them to countries to be tortured, sent them to their enemies that will kill them. Bad people, yes, but still people. At first I was horrified, I felt sick for days. Now when I do that I detach myself properly and I get nothing.

A little boy in the street asked me the other day why I had blood on my shirt. No one else had noticed of course, but he did. He reminded me of you actually, he looked like a mini you, probably why I actually talked to him. I told him I'd hurt myself while playing football, I don't even like football. He told me he'd fix me because he was going to be a doctor and 'big people need to be looked after by me because they're silly and hurt each other' I remember him now, if you have kids with Mary, can they be like him? If you have kids with her, am I allowed to see them? Because I think your kids would be nice John, more perfect, mini versions of you to make the world better. To look after the idiots like me. The ones that leave their only friend's behind.

SH

_Another unsent letter slipped its way into Sherlock's pocket. The detective winced a little as he stood up and walked back into the darkness. _

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Write a review and tell us what you think? Thanks x


	4. Chapter 4

**Soooo here's some feels. John's letter is first, then Sherlock's reply.**

**John's letters written by NirvanaK (Check her out maybe, fics coming from her soon) Sherlock's letters written by me.**

**Review answers:**

**Thank you so much for the reviews! They are lovely and give us inspiration to write :)**

**Warnings/Triggers- Feels. A lot of them. Strong language.**

**Disclaimer-**

**We only own the letters, we owe the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle the characters and the BBC for choosing such amazing actors that gave us such inspiration.**

**Anyway, away we go with the feels...**

* * *

_John swallowed as he picked up his Biro, this was his last call, today had been tough and the only one he needed right now was Sherlock, but of course, he wasn't there, wasn't sitting in his chair being a child. He sighed as he began to write. _

Sherlock,

It's been six months since I last wrote and I thought I'd given up on writing these silly fucking insane letters to a dead man, that I had finally, actually, completely let go of my stupid hopes that lingered at the back of my mind; that's you'd come home and walk through that door, probably bloody and bruised as per usual, with some sort of crazy story, some sort of explanation as to why you'd left me all alone for two fucking years. I really thought I had given that up. But... I had a bad day, a really bad day. One I couldn't tell even Mary about. I need to talk to you and you're not here so this is the next best thing. The only way I can ever talk to you now.

We're moving in together. We've managed six months together and she's not left me, despite all my shit and baggage she still loves me and wants to be around me, which astonishes me every day. We decided that we're ready for this, we're in it for the long haul and we practically spend all our time together anyway. But... But I'm not sure I _am_ ready, because moving in with Mary means moving out of 221B and leaving you behind, completely. She suggested moving into the flat but I couldn't... I couldn't do it, couldn't even think about it. That's _our_ place Sherlock, yours and mine, and I could never imagine living there with someone else. I just never thought it would be so hard to move out.

I've talked so much about finally letting you go but moving out of this place really means moving on, leaving 221B behind, leaving my old life, _with you,_ behind. Leaving you. I don't know if I can do it. What if I'm always going to hold out for you, how is that fair on Mary? Always holding a part of myself back for _you_? That's not what a committed relationship is meant to be like, you're meant to give everything to the other person, everything you are, and they give their everything right back to you. I can't do that with Mary because there is always, _always_, a part of me reserved for _you_. How fucking unfair is that? Even when you're dead I can't stop loving you. It's been two fucking years, Sherlock, I have nothing left to give you, l_et me go._

But... It's unfair of me to ask that when I can't even let you go. What am I meant to do? What sane person sits around in the living room they shared with their dead best friend, staring at said dead best friends untouched, unmoved stuff, as if they're waiting for them to come storming through the door. That's never going to happen. You're never coming back. I don't know who I'm trying to convince anymore. It's not like I have to convince you, you're dead. So I guess it's me that still can't quite let go.

What sane person won't move in with their loving, caring, understanding, witty, intelligent, committed girlfriend, just because they can't face the thought of leaving an empty, lonely, death stained flat? None. No sane person does these things.

What do I do Sherlock? Please. Help me.

JW

_John stared at the pointless words on the paper, Sherlock will never read these John! He. Is. Dead! He hated himself when he wrote these things, they just stirred up all the loneliness, betrayal and emptiness he felt because of the man he loved. Again, the paper was screwed up angrily and thrown in the bin. _

* * *

_Sherlock had lost hope in John writing again. In some ways it upset him because he wanted to know what the man was thinking. But then in other ways it made him happy, John was moving on, forgetting Sherlock and living his life, what he deserved to be happy. But when another letter appeared in the bin Sherlock frowned. So many emotions hit him at once: worry, apprehension, fear, relief, happiness, confusion, there was just so many. He read the letter over and over again silently, touching the words like they were a connection to John. He took his pen and wrote back. _

John,

I will come back. Some day. I promise you that I will, I just can't promise when.

I don't know what to say about the flat really... I want you to move on so you're happy with Mary and not lingering over me. But then I want to be able to come back to 221b, and find you sat there in your chair. I'm sure Mrs Hudson could arrange something for you? Maybe keep the flat vacant and the same for if you want to pop back sometimes. I'm sure she would.

You need to be fair to Mary, don't let her go because of me. She looks after you, cares for you, shows love to you, all the things I didn't do properly. You deserve that John so don't let her go, if you let her go because of me I won't forgive myself, because I stopped you from being happy.

There are two ways you can be happy John. Option 1 is that you move on, go with Mary, marry her maybe, have kids? Did you want those? I don't even know that about you... Option 2 is that you wait for me to come back and we tell each other how much we love each other and how we're lost without each other. I want you happy as quick as possible, so right now Option 1 looks like the best for you.

I'm going to tell you the worst thing that's happened to me so far. 6 days ago I was kidnapped. They took me to an abandoned warehouse, dull and stereotypical I know, and they tortured me. Burnt me, hit me, kicked me, cut me and drowned me. I survived that, that wasn't the worst of it all. They talked to me. They talked about you while I couldn't reply because I was gagged. Some of the things they said to me burn on my mind and won't go away. "Mary secretly talks about John behind his back, tells her friends he's a bit loopy, that he obsesses over a dead freak." "John and Mary will have kids, if it's a boy John will ask if he can call him Sherlock, Mary will nod and smile gently and tell him he can't do that." "When he moves in with Mary, John will wake up screaming your name and she'll just tell him you're dead and roll over." "Mary will get bored of him eventually, she'll think he's too broken because of what you did. She'll take everything and run away from John, and he'll be broken again." "John. _Will_. Kill himself." These words hurt me more than anything else. Because I'm scared they're true. I can't even tell Mary to stay with you and stick through it, because I'm supposed to be dead aren't I?

Just don't give up, because I'm working it out. Please don't give in, I won't let you down. There's nothing wrong with you, nothing we can't fix. It's me, I'm a freak, but thanks for loving me, because you're doing it perfectly.

SH

_Sherlock sighed once again as he had to fold this letter away with the others. John would see these one day. _

_He looked up as a man walked in the door of the derelict house and spoke in a cheery voice "Oh Sheeeeeerlock" Moran appeared from the shadows "A little birdy tells me you're looking for me. Well here I am, come and play sweetie." _

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**Thanks for reading! Please review? :) **


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